


Leaning on Mailboxes

by cassiejamie



Category: A-Team (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-02
Updated: 2010-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:49:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiejamie/pseuds/cassiejamie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Resignation, he knows, works best to keep his sanity intact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Insufficiently Fed

**Author's Note:**

> Within this chapter there is discussion of underage prostitution and abuse of a minor, but there is no explicit sexual acts with underage characters.

"_Ignorant, unwashed, insufficiently fed,  
but he had as good a heart as ever any boy had._"  
\- Hannibal -

It's no one cause that sends him to the streets, no one cause that makes him turn to a life of prostitution. Honestly, it's a series of events (and isn't that always the story) – his father dies when he's just three, his mother turns to liquor in his absence and slowly there is a parade of men through their dingy, squalid apartment; he starts to miss classes, then starts to skip them. He sips from alcohol bottles more and more, comes home only to sleep in a bed that is sometimes occupied by some random, stinking stranger, and when his mother finally chooses some cocaine-infused jobless asshole over his well-being, that is when Templeton Peck decides that life on the streets in LA has to be better than all that.

At first, he finds it's not too bad. There's a church not far from the school he struggles to attend now, needing the single midday meal that is sometimes his only one, and an elderly priest takes him in, giving him a blanket and a pillow. Let's him sleep in a pew, hard as they are, but Templeton is glad for it when the weather begins to warm.

The priest dies shortly after school lets out and the bishop comes to visit; he is not impressed with the streetrat lounging in one row, nor, apparently, subscribes to the doctrine of charity for he throws Templeton out on his ass with little else said. (He doesn't cry then, too wrapped up in trying to figure out his next step, but later, when it sinks in that the kindly old man who had shown him the first real affection he'd had in his life is dead, Templeton cries in an alleyway with rats for company.)

;;

Food costs money, and apartments too. Though he lives in and out of the shelters the first year – following other homeless from place to place like roving nomads – he eventually finds that they're particularly bad for someone his size and age. Granted no one really ever figures out that he's just a minor (thank god for small miracles because of all things, he does _not_ want to have to deal with DSS), but he's still far younger than most of the men cramped onto uncomfortable camping cots and too easy a target. He loses his thin blanket more than once, his shoes taken in the middle of the night, right off his feet.

Then someone tries to force him to his knees in a bathroom and he knows that the shelters are no longer safe haven for him. The church has forsaken him, his mother wouldn't want him if she had the option, and that leaves only one choice.

;;

Five years pass and sometimes Templeton thinks that maybe it went by too quick, maybe he'd miscounted and he's still that boy between sixteen and seventeen that had no where to go and no where to be. Numbers, however, have always been one of his strong suits and he knows the days really have passed: he's got the old calendars packed away in a decrepit cardboard box in his bedroom closet to prove it.

He looks older, time and stress ebbing away some of that boyish appearance; as he looks in the mirror, he wonders if his mother would even recognize him were they to pass on some street. He doubts she would – his eyes are duller, his skin rougher, and his hair loose and flat and long.

Templeton has tried to take care of himself, as the small collection of higher end products that sits on the bathroom counter would attest to, but when you're a prostitute in LA, no one really ever cares if your hair is coiffed just right. They only care if you charge the right price.

Rinsing the bits of shaving cream off his chin, he sighs and this time, averts his eyes from the mirror. He trudges to the closet, staring listlessly at the meager choices presented to him; it is high time that he go purchase new shirts, new pants, perhaps a jacket for the fall... He won't go, though, not to any store and the next church handout day isn't for several months.

He slips on a pair of worn jeans, the ones with the loose seams in the crotch, and yanks a white shirt over his head while praying that someone - _anyone_ \- needs a boy for the night. He's paid his rent up through next month but he'll be short if he doesn't earn something tonight.

He shudders involuntarily as he thinks about what he'd had to do the last time he'd been short and his pimp had come looking for his share of the money. He won't do that again, he won't, not if he has to forgo sleep to go stand with the day laborers tomorrow.

Continuing to pray and hope, Templeton closes his apartment door and locks it (pointless as burglers would just bash in the door if they wanted), trudges down the steps and begins the long walk to the street he spends his nights on. Sarah and Joanna are already there, Matthew too. Randy, Karli, and Rio will probably show up at some point; he hopes its after he's hooked, because seriously – it makes him sick to see these kids selling their bodies.

Okay, yeah, at one point that was _him_, but all that means (in his mind) is that he knows that anything is better than this. He regrets making this his life and he wants for them to see that there's possibilities for someone their age, that they have potential to be more. And lord, he tries, desperately, to get them understand that, but when it comes from the pot, the kettle doesn't listen.

"Ryan!" Sarah calls, smiling dimly. She's an older girl, redheaded and smart, who's been working this particular stretch for close to ten years; she's the only reason (he'll swear this over and over) that he's not dead yet, killed by some fucked up John.

He hugs her with one arm and smacks hands with Matthew.

They all know him as Ryan, since Templeton is too outrageous a name to forget and that's what he wants to be – forgettable – so when he either: a) dies, b) gets the fuck out of here, or c) moves on from this street and this city and this state, they won't remember him as anything more than that kid who used to come around. It makes his heart ache, that thought; these are his friends and allies, but all things, he knows, must come to an end.

His melancholic introspection ends when a car zips by, the brakes slam, and then reverses. Everyone immediately scatters, putting a little distance between them in order to preserve plausible deniability if it's the cops and also to make it easier to tell who precisely the driver (if it's a John) is interested in.

Templeton, of course, always assumes he's not the first choice, so he doesn't look to see where the car has stopped until he's safely ensconced in his favorite spot, leaning against a beaten up, paint-chipped mailbox. It's then that he sees a pair of amused blue eyes through the dirtied window of the Pontiac looking him over; he lets out a breath of relief.

;;

The guy says his name is John, which entertains Templeton, and it doesn't take a genius for Templeton to know he's looking at a military man. Hey, everyone's got needs and after all, there's a reason it's call R&amp;R (he's been fucked by his fair share of the four branches – he knows the lingo.)

He doesn't expect much in the way of finesse; military guys tend to be this side of rough, which he has absolutely no problem with, and once they come, they're interested in leaving ASAP, but they pay well (guilt maybe) and this guy, he thinks, might be the type to not try to enlist him. Many of them have tried – he suspects its their way of trying to save him – but who in their right mind would let a high school dropout rentboy enlist?

The motel staff says nothing as they hand over the key to Templeton's usual room, nothing as he hands over the twenty; they've been well-trained by the manager to not ask questions and to never admit anything to the cops. It makes it easier to not think about where he is and why he's here, the two things that have (in the past) roared up in his mind to make the experience worse than it already is.

Resignation, he knows, works best to keep his sanity intact.

John doesn't immediately start stripping nor demands Templeton start. Instead he kicks off his shoes, crawls on the bed, and holds out one arm to the confused young man.

"Kid, I have been driving for two days. I need a nap," he says, and Templeton raises an eyebrow. "Pay you extra."

That gets him moving. His sneakers carefully abandoned (laces tied around the lamp), he slides on top of the blanket beside John and lets himself be curled into an embrace. It's hair-raisingly unusual, freaks him out some, but pushes the fear back because being cuddled is not the worst thing to ever happen to him. (It helps that for once, he feels somewhat comfortable and that alone should be the warning sign – he knows better than this.)

He dozes.

;;

John's got his teeth on Templeton's neck when he comes to full alertness a half an hour later. John's nipping at all the right places, tonguing the spot under Templeton's ear that makes him whimper like a small child, and when he realizes Templeton's awake, John lets his hands slip over the lithe body beneath him.

Templeton moans, startled by it; the shock must show in his eyes, given how John smiles. "I won't use you, kid," he says, and pops the button on Templeton's jeans, lowers the zip.

The mouth that envelopes him is warm and skilled, and Templeton manages to hold onto his control just barely – it's been too long since anyone has blown _him_. He doesn't want to come, not now, because if he does, he knows he won't be able to tolerate being fucked with his usual class (he's sensitive after he comes, so much so that it borders on painful to be taken), but it seems John is intent on that goal.

"John..." he spits out, "Boss, you, uh, I have lube... condoms..."

Thankfully the older man relents and eases back, picking through Templeton's pockets for the aforementioned items. He finds them, drops the packets on the bedspread, then begins to pull the jeans free of Templeton's legs, pulls the shirt free of flesh.

Templeton turns on his belly while John disrobes, waiting with his legs spread and his head pillowed on his crossed arms; he is taken by surprise when he's forced back over, ass to the mattress. He immediately asks, "What?"

"I'm not fucking you like that, kid – not my style," John answers, and leans forward as though to kiss him. But Templeton moves his head away, and instead, John picks a stretch of pale skin that'll be hidden under a shirt to bite into.

For a few moments, Templeton stays still while John ruts against him; hands settle on his hips, pulling him in a rhythm, slow and pleasurable, that he gets a little lost in, barely noticing when John rolls on the condom, slicks it with lube, and slides his cock between Templeton's thighs.

;;

Templeton showers after John, dresses in record speed and manages to have the both out the door before the motel management came knocking.

This time, the car ride is uncomfortable and though Templeton takes the money with a smile, he genuinely hopes never to see John ever again.

;;

He and Sarah go out for breakfast the next day and she drags the details out of him when his face falls at her mention of the "hot old guy" over pancakes and eggs. God bless the ladies at the diner – they bring him chocolate chips with a sympathetic look when he bangs his head against the table.

"Okay, so let me get this straight – you had a guy that didn't argue about a condom, didn't fuck you, and cuddled and you _don't_ want to see him again? Honey, I will gladly take him off your pretty hands," she remarks, stealing one of the chocolate chips.

Templeton glares at her, but it's lackluster, half-assed. When it's put like that, it is hard to reject, but honestly it wasn't the actions of what happened so much as how it had felt: comfortable, safe. And he opens his mouth to give a retort, when Matthew slides into the booth and tells them, "Rio's dead."

;;

Losing someone has always been the impetus for some to get out of this life, off the streets, and this time is no different: Karli and Randy disappear one night, leaving word with Sarah that they're going home and half a dozen others do the same. The crowd on the street thins out, dispersed by the imaginary stink of death and by the cops, who up their patrol of the area temporarily.

Templeton remains, a staple of that street, though he earns significantly less the first week after Rio's death. It makes him desperate all over again, waiting for someone to decide, in the slim pickings, that his pretty face is worth the two hundred an hour. He lets Sarah put eyeshadow on him, lets her eventually buy him a new package of undershirts when his last one rips and he has to hook half naked for a while.

He gets close again to being short for the month and not simply short enough to buy his way out of it with his ass like he's done in the past; so short he's gonna have to dip into the tiny bit of savings he's managed to scrape together and still owe Jasper.

Then the Pontiac turns up the street and Sarah tosses him a sideways smile.

"Ah, fuck," he sighs, resigned, and hops in the car without so much as a gesture from the old man.

;;

It becomes a monthly routine – John coming around – and he starts to buy more than just an hour of Templeton's time. Two, three, four, whole nights; he never says what he does, but John comes with bruises and aches and sometimes all he can manage is to cuddle up with Templeton, whispering whatever comes to mind into the younger man's hair.

Templeton tries to keep a distance, throughout, knowing that at anytime, John could be sent on duty and his regular client could disappear without a word. It wouldn't be the first time, nor the last, and he's okay with that – it's the nature of this life, never seeing some people again. So he tries not to get attached, tries to squirrel away bits of the money John gives him to his little savings fund.

Slowly, though, he realizes that they've formed something resembling a friendship: they talk on the nights they don't fuck, and now Templeton knows that John's in the Army, that he's unmarried, got no kids, and on the fasttrack to a command. He doesn't want something big, he says, just a few men, maybe run an airborne unit; he's a Ranger complete with tattoo.

John, in turn, knows that Templeton was barely out of puberty when he started hooking, that he has a mother he wouldn't know from Eve, and that he spends most of his time when not on that street, reading stock figures.

"I didn't graduate from high school," Templeton admits one night. He's splayed out on the bed, John in a chair by the window, and they're both relaxed from take out that John had brought him. (He knows not to take food or drink from the Johns, but this one he trusts. He'll kick himself later for putting this much trust in one person.)

"Didn't think you did." John rubs his eyes. "You could now, kid. Get a GED."

"What use would it give me?"

John shrugs his shoulders. "Lots of places'll hire you with just a high school diploma."

"Yeah, but not many will hire a guy with a rap sheet the length of a guy's arm that's all prostitution charges," he points out. He snuffles into the pillow, and says, "Besides, I'm not good at much besides this."

As he falls asleep, he hears John speak but doesn't catch the words.

;;

He gets mail for the first time at his apartment a week later – an informational packet from the Army.

He tries not to look so crestfallen, and when John comes the week after, the old man can't get out of Templeton why the younger man is so quiet. It is the last time that Templeton as Ryan sees John.

;;

It takes another year before Templeton finds the need to leave overwhelm his resignation of his place in life; another year of getting by day to day and month to month before he realizes that he really is going to die out here if he doesn't get somewhere better, because if Sarah, wizened and experienced Sarah, could be fooled by what had seemed like a nice guy, it's only a matter of time for the rest of them.

He quietly packs his things into a duffel bag, slips out in the middle of the night, and sets off for places unknown which turns out to be northern Cali. It puts him just out of reach of Jasper and within reach of an activist group trying to ease homelessness in the area; they get him a bed in a shelter far better than the ones of his youth, get him registered for his GED.

And though he tries not to think about it, every so often, Templeton wonders if John's been down the street, if he's asked about Ryan.

Those thoughts fade gradually until shortly after he completes the degree; there's a ceremony that the activists put together for the graduates, some sort of celebratory thing at the school, and someone asks him what he plans to do now.

He ponders for a minute what he should say because, honestly, he doesn't know – it's been a long time since he's had to think about what tomorrow will bring. (Rentboys don't need to plan, so much as show up.)

Then a voice comes from behind him, strong and deep and familiar. "Yes, kid, what are you going to do?"

And Templeton knows.

;;

John likes to be called Hannibal and when he introduces him to Russell Morrison, Templeton takes an immediate liking to the old man. Morrison reminds him of the priest from so long ago, though he curses more and he prefers whiskey to prayer; it's Morrison who teases Templeton at first about having such a pretty face, but it's Hannibal who starts call him by the nickname.

It's a nickname that sticks all through basic training, despite being separated from Smith for several months; the guys in the barracks take to it though no one can say for sure who told them it in the first place.

When he leaves basic, it's only to go through more training; he sees Smith around this time, like some sort of overseer as he weaves through the guys stripping down guns, and when he finishes, it's to be told that he'll be partnered with Smith. "Clandestine missions, son," he's told with some measure of distaste in the words; these men know his past and they're less than pleased with the thought, but he's used to people's disapproval so he takes his orders with pride and salutes like a proper soldier.

Outside the building, Hannibal waits in his Class A's, neat and proper, on a bench.

Smiling when he sees Face, he tells the younger man, "I love it when a plan comes together."


	2. Find a Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Face knows it shouldn't be this easy.

"_We will either find a way  
or make one._"  
\- Hannibal -

He hasn't done this in over a decade – sell his body to get what he needs – but in some ways, it's like riding a bicycle. (And in this case, he muses, he's the bicycle.) He hasn't forgotten how to get to that place in his head where he can block out the pain, block out the insults and the self-recriminations, nor has it been particularly hard to slip back into that mind set: the one where he's just a body to be used, nothing more.

Face knows it shouldn't be this easy. He should be more upset over the reality that he's back to square-fucking-one, scratching out a life for himself in sexual acts; he should be worried, too, because when Hannibal finds out... Face chooses not to think about that whenever the thought pops into his mind – Hannibal is hundreds of miles away, locked up in cell with no ability to get any information about or to his Lieutenant.

The block warden, Bob, is a nice guy and doesn't fall for Face's attempts. So Face stops trying to ply him with blowjobs, instead finding out that the man's son is in Afghanistan and manages to secure a safe return for the young soldier; it buys him Bob's loyalty when he hears that Josh is on his way home.

Kelly, the skinny brunette Captain that makes him think of Charissa in all the wrong ways, sleeps with him for nothing more than enjoyment. Face is all for that because, after all, he's in prison, but he's not _dead_.

It's the Warden and the night guards that take Face up on his offers, making deals with him in whispered secrets and mutters against his skin.

He secures a transfer for Murdock, getting him away from that dirty mexican mental ward and it's (Face thinks) horrifying treatments, away from the meds that Murdock had always complained made him feel dull and dizzy and disconnected. It takes a week of going down on his knees for the Warden and two nights of being fucked until he was sore, but he's told the morning of his second month in Pensacola that Murdock's on his way to Germany; Face nearly rejoices.

BA... BA, he tries to keep well-fed and well-read. The man, for all his anger and his bitterness, likes to read – Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Playboy. He'll read anything and Face knows that if there's one thing that'll help ground his friend for the moment, it's books. So he starts collecting anything he thinks BA might like from around the prison, blowing one guard for a copy of Penthouse and another he lets come on his face for a copy of the Dalai Lama's book. Slowly but surely he gets together a small library; lets Joe, the guard from C-block, fuck him against the bars of an unoccupied cell, in exchange for sending them north. He hears that BA will be transferred to another prison in a few months and squirrels that knowledge away.

Hannibal's the one he owes the most to – they may be in prison, but Hannibal got him off the streets, gave him somewhere to call home even if it was a nomadic life, gave him a purpose – and he needs to get him something that will help the old man. He can't get Hannibal moved, doesn't want to, since Hannibal's already in one of the better prisons, and he doubts the Boss would want books, movies, or candy (Murdock, he's been told, has been fashioning accessories from the candy Face has gotten for him).

It takes some doing, but he finds out through the grapevine that Pike's been spotted in Germany. Face is sure that Hannibal can do something if Face can just get that information to him, so he makes a deal with the Warden that he'll regret later, but for now and for Hannibal, it's worth the pain.

He hates being fucked over tables, hates being fucked with dildos more because goddamnit, no one does it right; he hates being used like someone's toy. He forces himself to push it away, push it down into his mind and go to that place. _It's worth it_, he chants every time, _It's worth it._

;;

There was no time for questions at first. Hannibal was working too hard to clear their names to think about what he'd gleaned from his men or how Face had known about Pike before Hannibal had even told him. Then Face was working too hard to crucify Lynch, show Pike for who he really was.

Now, though, there's all the time in the world: they're wanted, but they're free.

They've picked a nice wooded area up north to stop for the night, deciding to stay in the truck BA's driven the entire way, but no one's even tempted to sleep. Even Face, usually capable of at least dozing no matter the conditions, can't close an eye – he knows what Hannibal's been thinking about since they were taken into custody for the second time.

He knows Hannibal had seen the scars left on his hips, the faint bruises left behind by the Warden not so long ago, when the EMTs had checked Face over in the shipyard.

"Look, Boss," he starts, wanting to get this over with as quickly as he can.

Hannibal narrows his eyes, a warning Face is well-acquainted with, and Face quickly shuts his mouth. "I thought you had more faith in me, Face."

That throws Face for a loop and he knows the confusion shows. He's always trusted Hannibal, always had faith in the old man.

"I told you once that you'd never have to do that again, Face," Hannibal goes on, "I told you never to let someone use you like that again and you did. Did you think I wasn't going to come through?"

"What? No, Boss, I knew you'd get us out."

"Then why, Face?" he asks, brow furrowed. "Face..."

"It's what I am, all right? I'm a whore – been one since I was sixteen years old – and for once, I could actually do something to benefit someone instead of just laying there and taking it. I got Murdock away from that fucking overdosing moron, kind backfired with BA but at least he didn't spend his entire incarceration racking up assault charges, and I got you Pike." He sighs, rubbing his eyes, and when he looks at the three of them again, he says, "I'm a whore, guys. Can put me in fatigues and send me into the field... doesn't change that."

There's a few moments of silence, then Hannibal reaches out and pulls Face in by the collar of his shirt. He's holding in his temper; he has always known that Face thinks of himself in lesser terms, compares himself to Murdock and BA and somehow comes out at the bottom. It enrages Hannibal for so many reasons, but he knows it's not going to mean jackshit to Face to try to argue the point.

So Hannibal does the only thing he can: he lets go of Face and tells him, "Then if you're a whore, you're our whore," and watches as Murdock and BA nod. He knows they'll agree, knows that they'll be watching Face for the next few months in case he dares to let someone use him like that again, and he approves; Face, evidently, had thought about helping everyone but himself, and they'll make sure he puts himself a little higher on the priorities list.

Face is back to himself in the next instant. He laughs, sprawling against the seat he's commandeered in the van, and shakes his head, saying, "Well, we are in a van in the middle of the woods and it wouldn't be the first time..."

"Man, Face, you're almost as whacked as Murdock," BA remarks and settles into his bedding on the floor below Face. He's almost tempted to move, put himself between Face's makeshift bed and the sliding door, but he's too tired and BA knows that if Face were to try something, Hannibal would be on the younger man in thirty seconds flat.

BA snorts – if only Face knew – and falls sleep to the noise of Murdock chattering on.

;;

Hannibal's always up first, always the one to wake the others, so it doesn't surprise Face when he gets up the next morning and Hannibal isn't in the van.

He manages to get out of the van without waking BA or Murdock, following the scent of cigar smoke a few yards away. There, standing beside a gently flowing creek, Hannibal stands, smoke curling around his head. Hannibal looks pensive and a little exhausted, like he's spent most of the night thinking rather than sleeping; Face wouldn't be surprised if the old man has – they need a plan and Face did promise Murdock he'd leave the planning to Hannibal.

"Hey, Boss," Face greets.

Hannibal doesn't turn around. "Kid."

Face is tempted to ask if he's done something wrong but he's not that needy twenty-something anymore, the guy who was searching for approval from anyone who crossed his path. He's Templeton Peck, a strong, well-trained Ranger under Hannibal Smith's command, not Ryan with no last name, waiting for the next guy to come along and pay him to spread his legs.

"I mean it, Face," Hannibal says when Face stays quiet for too long. "You want to fuck someone, it's because you choose to."

"Boss..."

"You're worth more than you think." Hannibal snubs out the cigar and pockets it. "I put my career on the line that night, because I saw something in you, Face, and I came back because once I left, I knew what it was I saw. Face, I got you off that street because you should never have been there and I find out you let someone abuse you like that again..."

Face holds up both hands. "Hannibal, you don't have to... I mean, Boss, come on, who doesn't know about me, huh? Who doesn't know what I used to do and come looking for a turn? Why not get something out of the deal when I have the chance to?"

Hannibal's hand clenched, the other tight around the strap of his holster. "Because you're important. Face, you're important."

It shouldn't be so surprising, given their history, but Face is shocked when Hannibal leans in and kisses him, and for a few moments, he isn't sure what he should be doing. Then his brain re-engages and Face is kissing back, his eyes closed as his hands come up to clench at Hannibal's arm, his side.

When they break apart, Face is panting and Hannibal looks slightly guilty. After all, he'd long ago promised himself that he'd never do this, never take advantage of Face, not again.

The guilt recedes a few moments later when Face laughs and lets his head fall forward onto Hannibal's neck, muttering, "What if I'm your whore, Hannibal?"

"That works, kid."


End file.
